


Gifts

by autumnlouise



Series: Baby, It's Cold Outside [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-27 04:22:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13240329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autumnlouise/pseuds/autumnlouise
Summary: During the two years following Sherlock's "death", Molly receives packages from a certain consulting detective.





	Gifts

The first gift came when Molly was at work. She’d been absorbed in her experiment, analysing kidney tissue under a microscope for part of her most recent post mortem, when the lab door opened. She paid it no mind– it was probably the intern, Delia, going to get a coffee. They were eight hours through a twelve-hour shift, and the younger ones tended to peter out much quicker.

“Can you get me one, too?” Molly called, not moving her face from the microscope.

The answering voice, gruff and certainly not belonging to her intern, made her jump. “Erm… well, miss, I can get you a package for Molly Hooper.”

Molly practically leapt out of her stool, almost knocking the microscope over in the process. A bearded postman stood in the doorway, holding a little brown parcel with her name on the label. She hadn’t ordered anything recently, much less anything she’d want sent to her work instead of her flat. “That’s me,” she said breathlessly, reaching for the box.

“Sorry to startle you, but they needed a signature for it. Not something I want to leave on a doorstep.” he informed her, much to her confusion. Her eyebrows furrowed; she definitely hadn’t bought anything online, and she couldn’t think of anyone who would send her a gift in the mail, as both her parents were dead and she wasn’t close with the rest of her family. Maybe Mike had bought some new tools for the morgue and had them shipped to her name. Maybe it was a prank by the interns.

Or maybe, she realized with a flutter in her chest, it was from _him_.

“Oh, yes. Well, thank you,” she stammered, voice too breathy, words too fast, as she signed for the package and nearly yanked it from his hands. A moment later, the postman was gone, and she was alone with the little brown parcel that her heart desperately hoped was from Sherlock.

She set it down on the counter beside her microscope and stared it down. Regular brown cardboard, a nondescript white printed label, with her name on it and the address of Barts Hospital. Nothing unique about it. But… there was no return address.

Her mind wandered with a thousand possibilities. Maybe Sherlock had sent her some vital information regarding Moriarty’s network that he needed her to keep safe. Maybe it was a memento, to tell her he was alive and well. But why, the other part of her reasoned, would he think of _her_ on his travels to dismantle a terrorist organization? She wasn’t that important. He had just needed her to survive the Fall, and after that, they went their separate ways and that was that. Why would he have any reason to send her a package?

By that point, she had firmly convinced herself that it was _not_ from Sherlock at all and probably just a mistaken address. Leaving the box unopened, she forced herself to turn back to her kidney tissue. The alibi of a suspect depended on it, and Lestrade and Scotland Yard needed the information as soon as possible. She couldn’t afford to be distracted by daydreams and fanficul little gifts.

But for the rest of the afternoon, the box called to her with a siren’s song. She kept sneaking glances at it to make sure it was still there- and each time it was, in fact, still on the table, still addressed to one _Molly Hooper, c/o St. Bartholomew’s Hospital._ When the intern of the day, Delia, returned from lunch break, she immediately beelined for the package.

“Oooh! What’s this?”

Molly’s eyes snapped back to the microscope, trying to pretend she hadn’t just been gazing wistfully at the box herself. “I’m not sure. It came for me a bit ago. Had to sign for it.”

Delia picked up the box and tilted it back and forth; something small rattled inside. “Sign for it? It’s got to be something special, then!”

Molly shrugged.

“Oh, come on!” the intern begged, pulling the microscope away from Molly’s head. The pathologist fell forward and barely kept her face from smashing into the table. “Doctor Hooper, you’ve got to open it! Please? _Please?”_

Molly sighed. She had gotten most of the results she’d needed from the kidney tissue, and if Delia wasn’t going to leave her alone about it… she supposed she could indulge and open it here instead of waiting until later. “Alright,” she caved. With hands trembling from anticipation, she slowly cut into the box and lifted the flaps open.

At first, she thought that the box was empty and that it was simply a gag gift. But the adjustment of her eyes and a moment in the light revealed a tiny, shining oyster shell– drilled into which was a pair of beautiful, round, pink-tinted pearl earrings.

Molly gasped.

“Ohh, Doctor Hooper, looks like you’ve got a secret admirer!” Delia swooned, looking in awe at the jewelry. Yes, a secret admirer indeed. No friend would send these to Molly _just because._ She wasn’t worth this kind of splendor. “Are they real?”

 _She_ wasn’t one for fancy things and opulent gestures. But she did know someone who was. Her chest tightened– could it be him? A sign, telling her that he was back to play? Jim from IT had never scared her. But Moriarty, the shadow in the dark, the whisper behind your back, had given her nightmares.

“Probably faux,” Molly said, trying to hide the shaking in her voice. She needed to figure out who was behind this as soon as possible. If only Sherlock were there. He’d know what to do. “I’m going to go and put these in my locker. Can you finish cleaning up in here?”

Delia made a noise of protest as Molly picked up the box and stumbled out of the room in a fog.

In the locker room, Molly sank to the floor against the wall, opening the box again to be sure of its contents. Yes, just the shell and a pair of pearl earrings… and what was that? A little piece of paper stuck out from underneath the shell. Molly pulled out the laminated postcard, decorated with what looked to be Hiragana lettering and a piece of Japanese artwork on the front. On the back, in handwriting that she immediately recognized, was written:

_Merry Christmas. Thinking of you. –SH_

There was no mistaking the handwriting for anyone other than Sherlock’s. Relief and something more made her heart soar.

Sherlock was safe. Not only that, but had thought of her. Had sent her these beautiful earrings. By the looks of the pearls, they were most certainly real. And judging by the type of pearl and the card he’d sent her… she could deduce that he was most likely in Japan. Sherlock would have chuckled at her detective work.

Anxiety gone, heart pounding, cheeks red, Molly Hooper barely held back a squeal. It had only been a month since she’d seen Sherlock last, but she already missed the consulting detective more than anything. And it was heartwarming to know that, halfway across the world, Sherlock Holmes might have missed her, too. She held the card to her chest and smiled.

“Come home soon, Sherlock.” she whispered to the note, taking care to keep it unbent as she tucked it and her earrings into her purse.

The second gift did not come until her birthday, months later. It had been a rubbish day– she’d been forced to work a twelve hour shift, but had also done double duty because the intern called in sick. John and Greg had stopped by at different times to wish her a happy birthday, but neither stayed very long. Without Sherlock, there was a hole in the room that just made things awkward. One of her friends in the maternity ward had set her up on a blind date, but it had gone absolutely horribly and ended with him spilling Pinot Noir all over her dress.

Coming home and seeing the box on her front porch made her day considerably better. She was unsure if it was another gift from Sherlock at first– it was her birthday, anyone could send her a parcel. But once again, it had no return address. She opened it with Toby by her side, who swiped at the bubble wrap inside and tried to climb into the box.

The card was on top this time. This one was a simple cream stationary, emblazoned with _fleur-de-lis_ on the header. _Happy Birthday, Molly Hooper. I hope you are happy. –SH_

Her heart fluttered. And under the bubble wrap was… a bottle of champagne. Her favorite, no less. How did he know? Oh, she hadn’t had champagne since Meena’s wedding last year, and it would be the perfect thing to relax with after her awful day. If Sherlock Holmes were in the room at that moment, she might have kissed him.

A pang of loneliness hit her. She missed him so much it hurt. But at least he was safe. At least he was alive, and by the looks of his gift, in France. That was all she could ask for.

The gifts continued coming sporadically. Packages would show up on Molly’s doorstep or at Barts on Christmases, birthdays, random occasions in between– insignificant holidays that no one but Sherlock would know about. The gifts were always indicative of where he was: a seashell from a beach in the South Pacific. A sheep’s wool hat from Iceland, with an adorable pom pom on top that she just loved. Nesting dolls from Russia. A boomerang from Australia. A jade bracelet from China. A gentle signal to her that, wherever he was, he was safe.  All of them came with the same sort of note;  _Thinking of you_ or _Thank you_ or _I hope you’re happy._ All of them ended with the same nebulous _SH_.

Once, she’d tried to send him something back. There was never a return address, but she thought she’d try. Surely, if she sent it to his brother’s office, he would know where to forward it to next. He’d known as much about Sherlock’s plan as she had. So she had wrapped up a pack of his favorite cigarettes, despite her hatred of his smoking, a deerstalker hat, and a handwritten letter, sent to _Mr. SH, care of Mycroft Holmes._ But a few days later, she returned home to find the package back on her front stoop, the label stamped with an angry red ‘ _RETURN TO SENDER’._

Molly fought back tears as she picked up the parcel. Maybe he hadn’t wanted it after all. Maybe the gifts were just him repaying her for everything she’d done for him, and nothing more. Maybe it was the letter. She shouldn’t have made it so sentimental. He hated things like that.

But her doubts vanished when she noticed another handwritten card stuck on top of the label, this one proudly proclaiming that it was _FROM THE DESK OF MYCROFT HOLMES._

 _Miss Hooper,_ he’d written,

_I cannot send your package, but I will pass on your letter and your regards. –MH_

And that was enough. It would have to be.

The months went by, and Molly began to miss Sherlock fiercely. The hole in her heart where he’d once lived grew bigger with each passing day. He had promised her that he would return one day. Each night, she crossed her fingers and wished on stars that that day would be tomorrow. She would give anything to see him again. Even if he didn’t feel the same way she did, even if he was just going to brush her off… she would give anything for just one smile, one snide remark, one glance.

But then another package came. This one was a thin, orange envelope. On a piece of real Egyptian papyrus, Sherlock had done a beautiful charcoal sketch of her. On the back, he hastily scrawled, _Thank you for your letter.  It is comforting to know that you are safe and well._ _I miss you. I am all out of poetic ways to say that. My apologies.  -SH_

Molly pinned the drawing up on her bedroom wall and ran her fingers over the charcoal strokes, imagining his beautiful hands touching the same paper. Making the elegant, loopy lines. “I miss you, too,” she had whispered to the picture.

After that, the packages grew sparser, the locations changing every time. Serbia. Sweden. The Netherlands. Come summer, they seemed to just… stop. Molly checked the mailbox every day, but there was nothing.

For almost six months… nothing.

With each passing day, Molly worried a little more. Was Sherlock alright? Was he safe? She didn’t want to think about what the lack of correspondence could mean. Just seeing her doorstep empty made her nauseous.

She didn’t want to bury Sherlock Holmes for real. Not after everything she’d done to save him.

After five months had passed, the longest gap between parcels yet, Molly called Mycroft’s office and demanded to speak with the elder Holmes. After much coercing and arguing with his secretary, she managed to get him on the phone for a moment– in which he could only say, for fear of wire taps, that, “your package is on its way. I will tell you if anything changes.” What in the world was that supposed to mean? He was alive, that was certain. But… was he going to come home?

Molly didn’t let her hopes up.

Winter was coming, and with it, the two year anniversary of Sherlock’s “death”. Lestrade proposed a night out for drinks in his memory, but John was busy with a new girlfriend and Mrs. Hudson had flat-out refused, saying she would be too emotional. Come to think of it, Molly hadn’t seen either of them lately, especially John. Mrs. H sent her a well-meaning e-mail from time to time, but John hadn’t called or texted in months.

She hoped he was all right. And, more than ever, she was so incredibly lonely…

October came and found her stressed. The coming cooler months always had an increase in deaths, which meant more autopsies and paperwork to do. One of the other pathologists had just taken off on maternity leave, meaning Molly was swamped with her work as well as her own. Twelve hour shifts became increasingly  common instead of just once or twice a week. When she wasn’t at Barts, she was in bed, lying awake and stressing about the days to come. When she could actually fall asleep, she usually did so crying. She’d never been lonelier in her entire life. She missed her friends– Meena had moved to the countryside; Greg, John, and all the others had been distant since Sherlock’s death. And Sherlock himself was gone, probably never to return.

Molly sobbed into her pillow and told him, “You had better keep your promise. Or I’ll hunt you down and find you myself.”

Her last thought as she fell asleep was, _please, let the tomorrow where he returns finally come._

Tomorrow came.

The next day, when she arrived home from a grueling shift at Barts, she found a sticky note taped to her door. _Package on its way. –MH._ Molly’s heart soared. It was probably a reference to another parcel from Sherlock, which meant he was safe and alive and possibly one step closer to coming home–

She stepped inside her apartment, still engrossed in the sticky note. So it was a bit of a shock to her when she looked up and found the man himself lounging on her sofa, a gift bow stuck on top of his head, and a smirk on his face as though he’d always been there and she’d just failed to see him this whole time.

Two years. Two years he’d been gone, and now he was here, on her couch, in her living room, in her apartment–

Sherlock. Alive. Safe. _Here._

Molly screamed and ran to him.

Sherlock despised physical contact, Molly knew, but he let the pathologist barrel into him and shove her head into his chest. She didn’t want it to be this way, but she started to cry and couldn’t stop. All the loneliness she’d felt over the past years exploded out of her. Sherlock froze under her touch, the playful smile gone.

“Did I do something wrong?” he demanded, pulling her away to look at her face. Molly laughed, the sound mixed with a choked sob.

“No, no,” Molly sniffed, wiping away her tears. “No, Sherlock, you… I just missed you so terribly…”

To her surprise, Sherlock Holmes wrapped his arms around Molly and held her close. “I missed you, too, Molly Hooper. And I have one more gift for you, if you’d like to have it...”

Molly, still sniffing, stood up to let Sherlock find what he was looking for. The detective smiled as he reached into his pocket, pulled out the smallest box she’d ever seen, and opened it.

Inside was a simple gold band, adorned with one sparkling diamond in the middle. Molly gasped.

“Sherlock,” she breathed, starting to cry again.

“Molly.” he said, not getting down onto one knee but offering her the box all the same. “Molly Hooper. The woman who counted. Who mattered most. I know this may seem sudden, but I have spent many hours planning this exact moment; what I would give you, what I would say to you, when I would be able to return. Two years is a long time to think. To let feelings settle.”

Molly was a little dizzy. All she could think was, _is this really happening?_

“Molly, over the past two years, I have realized many things, the first of which is that I love you. With every fiber of my being, I love you, and I am all out of poetic ways to say it. I apologize for that. The second of which is that I don’t want to live another moment without you. Every day I spent away was agony, and I never want to be apart from you again. So, Molly Hooper, will you–”

“Yes, yes,” she sobbed, throwing her arms around him before he was even done speaking.

She knew it was fast. She knew they hadn’t even dated and had only shared one kiss in the heat of the moment after she’d helped him fake his death. But this was Sherlock Holmes, the man she knew better than herself and who she’d loved for years. And, for at least the past two, he had loved her back. That was enough. That was all she could ever ask for.

Sherlock chuckled. “It would have been nice if you had let me finish. But I appreciate the sentiment all the same.”

After he slid the ring onto her finger, a perfect fit, Molly was finally able to do what she had wished for for years. Looking into his eyes, she whispered, “I love you, too, Sherlock Holmes.” and with a newfound confidence, she pressed her lips to his and kissed him passionately.

When they finally pulled apart half an hour later, lips swollen, arms and legs tangled where they laid on the couch, Sherlock tugged Molly closer and asked, “What was your favorite gift, out of all the ones I sent you?”

Molly was tempted to say the charcoal drawing, or the Icelandic hat. But then she looked at the man lying beside her, the bow still askew on top of his head– how, she didn’t know– and realized that nothing compared to _this_.

“You.” she told him, feeling the weight of the ring on her finger and smiling. “You, and the lifetime we have to spend together.”

“I was hoping you would say that.” Sherlock said, wrapping his arms around her and resting his face in her hair. “But before that lifetime starts… I need to spend some time making up for the past two years first.”

Sherlock and Molly stayed in each other's arms for the rest of the night. And looking at his face, relaxed once he'd finally fallen asleep, and knowing that it was all real... was probably the best gift of all. 


End file.
